


Black Coffee

by TheManSings



Category: Shameless (TV), Shameless (US)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 08:13:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheManSings/pseuds/TheManSings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The musings of Mickey's mind at 2AM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Coffee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [runinmynylons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/runinmynylons/gifts).



_“Tell me about it.”_

The words choked him, reached out and placed fingers around his neck, testing and applying pressure exactly where he’s pretty sure his lymph nodes should be. Are—they’re there, they’re swollen.

And he wants to ask him how he’s ever supposed to start. Where exactly the story opened up to a first page and if there even _is_ a first page it’s been burned. What is burning your bridges after you’ve crossed them? Nothing but a blessing of forgetting what was there.

It’s the beginning burn, the one that ignites the rest of your life slowly disintegrating the question of _god damn_ and _how did this fucking start_. Because right now you’re a little kid and you’re in your room stabbing fingers into your ears to block out the noise. The noise is ugly and you’ve not yet learned that you are too.

That’s okay, you’ve got time.

Ian pushed forward poking his finger into Mickey’s skin. His eyes are unfocused like he may be able to catch the answer if he sinks down to his level. His level is oblivion.

_“It’s like drinking black coffee.”_

The only thing that comes to his mind and the clarity is there. Telling him that he knows exactly what he’s saying but there are no words to connect the thought to the pit in his stomach.

Mickey thinks maybe it’s his purpose. Eyes wide open in the middle of the night telling Ian how black coffee is why he is scared of dreaming and how crying might be what he imagines giving birth to be like.

A splitting open of will, between accepting the pain as profound and thinking _I don’t deserve this_.

Because drinking black coffee is like being a king. Making the choice to let his tongue lazily lap at bitter tastes and there’s a mantra – _you like it, you like it, you like it._

“ _Tell me about it.”_

_“You’re going to be disappointed.”_

They go on like this for hours. Sitting in a small booth tucked away in some defunct coffee shop open 24 hours. He’s so tired he’s awake but there are circles under Ian’s eyes.

He wants to tell him about the way he lies in bed at night staring at the ceiling and thinking of the ways the molecules work. How the only comfort might be dead weight on top of him pinning and indenting into his skin all the ways he could be loved. And how nighttime worries him but the morning is terrifying.

“ _I can’t drink that.”_ He glides the mug gently over back into Mickey’s hands proving that it really is like black coffee.

He thinks maybe he should apologize for the way it sits on Ian’s tongue and how he’s made him sour. It’s an unfortunate game that the minds play at 2 in the morning.

_“It’s an acquired taste.”_

They make love slow that night. Like they mean it and like Ian can’t quite feel the tears dripping on him in sloppy plops of salt water. Mickey will ignore his affections and quick breathed _I love you’s._ They go to sleep sticky and regretful, already, of the following day but he’s counting sheep.

And there is a broken coffee cup sitting on the table when he gets up at 5 to pee. Mandy’s scribbled handwriting on something that’s gone cold – _thought you might want this_.

The coffee is cool by now because he’s let her down coming in later and stealing her best effort.

Ian’s rolling around in bed reaching out blindly his heart rate spiking. Always the pessimist. Mickey can feel it in the way his heart stops and stutters, he’s killing love each second he forgets to be there.

It’s a horrible thing to let it slide cold down his throat but he takes the gift. A new note taped on top demanding that she take it back.

_“Will you tell me about it?”_

Ian is drenched in sleep and the fog over his eyes is the villain in this story. A veil to say that this will not be forgotten nor remembered. He’s reaching out placing hands warm against Mickey’s skin and maybe he should just tip the liquid down _his_ throat.

Because it’s like black coffee and the singular choice of liking it. It’s about all the words too important to say out loud and he would rather shoot him up with them instead.

_“Will you tell me about it?”_

Mickey bites right through his lip this time—blood gathering on the sheets. There are tears in his eyes now, he can feel it.

And frustration may be greater than sadness but we just don’t understand that line. So he grabs and pulls at the sheets beneath them both, hands still lingering. He feels nails scratching at each itch that’s buried deeper than organs but there’s not much left to say. I’m sorry, you’re going to be disappointed.

_“It’s like drinking black coffee.”_


End file.
